So the time has finally come for me to pack up my bags and life here in Abu Dis. As regards timing, I'm just not sure. After things went nuts in Gaza it seemed a little uncertain as to what might happen here in the West Bank. In this small town it's hard to imagine little else happening save from an escaped goat or a couple of illegal ford taxi drivers crunching in to each other.
But of course a superficial peace belies a rumbling belly of discontent. The events in Gaza triggered a series of Fatah sponsored arrests of Hamas members, including here, a Sheikh and a local teacher. Locally employed people here are dubious as to whether the promised delivery of witheld tax revenues will finally be released by Israel, after months of half or no salaries.
And life continues. People still cannot reach Jerusalem, hospitals, family. Life remains stuck in the same rut which has affected at a psychological level almost every member here. There are still around 75 people from Abu Dis in prison with little access to health treatment, unable to see their families and unsure as to when they will be released.
And to to everyone here's dismay I am returning to England without a Palestinian husband. Ah well.
But the friendships which have been founded here will be long lasting. After all - you can't make a soldier treat someone like a human being, although you may try. And you can't tell Ehud Olmert that his intentions of the slow demise of the Palestinian people will never, ever work as long as Palestinians remain living on this soil. But you can share some time with people here, who need a break from their daily, routine life so much. And you can extend a hand and receive a thousand in return.
And you can return back to your home country and tell their stories. Which is what I intend to do. See you soon. Thanks so much for reading. XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX
Monday, June 25, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
Welcome back
Oof. Sorry it has been a long time- I took a week or so in the Egyptian Sinai for a break, and have since been getting stuck back in to work here, and wondering how best to unravel my life in Abu Dis which has become so strangely normal, in preparation for my return to England.
Having never previously travelled in Israel proper it was interesting, if a little daunting, to gain a different perspective and be able to see the contrast between Israel and Palestine in its incredulous reality. On the way to the central bus station in West Jerusalem, crowded and dishevelled streets quickly gave way to smart shiny buildings, glamourous shopfronts and strictly Orthodox Jewish neighbourhoods. To enter the bus station itself one must first navigate through the airport-style security- baggage x-rays, metal detectors. Somewhat ironic, as once inside the station, the place was crowded of youths, girls and boys, clad in military fatigues, all with enormous guns slung uncomfortably over their shoulders or between their legs, as they hung around picking at sandwiches and waiting for buses.
The bus route towards Egypt hugs the length of the multi-coloured shores of dead sea, tracing the border with Jordan through rocky, mountainous desert. The final stop in Israel's south is Eilat- a Disneyland style collection of ghastly hotels and tacky seafront stands selling holiday tat, with an airport strip running through the centre. Needless to say I got out as quickly as I could. To my relief once I had crossed the Taba border, through the deserted immigration building in to Egypt the picture again became familiar- a few old men sitting around battered taxi cabs, smoking cigarettes and shading their wrinkled brown faces from the baking sun. And waiting for punters. "Sabah al gheeeeeeeeeer!" (good morning).
I spent the week on the windy promotory of Dahab, gazing at the fishes and swimming in the jewel blue waters of the Gulf of Aqaba before returning, finally unwound, to Abu Dis. But of course there was little respite. Before I even had time to count my freckles and wash the salt from my hairI received a telephone call to say that a child of fourteen had been arrested on his way home from school. The child who was asthmatic, needed his medecine and the family were hoping that I could help them negotiate their way in to the Police Station at a nearby settlement to see their son.
So I went with them. We were confronted at the entrance by two soldiers, the first of whom in no uncertain terms told us to go home. I spoke to the second soldier, explaining that the boy's mother just wanted to give him some medecine. After a few minutes a couple of residents from the settlement arrived- two men who looked something like self-styled 'security'. I was gruffly asked several times whether I was a lawyer and what I wanted. We were eventually let through to the police station, where we saw the boy in question sitting handcuffed, surrounded by six or so soldiers. The Police Officer behind the desk saw us, and quickly clocked that an allowance must have been made. The soldiers rallied round and we were all pushed outside.
I imagine that any of you reading this who have children would feel that if your son was arrested, you at least had the right to know that his basic health needs were being met. Also you would expect to be told why he was arrested and how long he would be held for. You would probably expect that there would be some kind of representation, a lawyer, a trial, maybe visiting arrangements. Also some evidence or witnesses to the crime.
Not here. The crime in this case? I asked the Police Officer who was busy shouting rudely at the boy's parents:
"What do you want to know? Are you a laywer? Do you have a problem? This boy was thowing stones at army jeeps, the soldiers saw him."
Just to rewind a little. We are talking about a Palestinian town whose security forces are entirely in the hands of the occupying power. The boy was taken whilst on his way home from school, to a Police Station in an illegally built settlement. The crime was throwing stones. This boy, who was on his way home from school, was denied basic rights of representation, a trial, visiting rights for his family. Yet it was us who were asked what we were doing at the Police Station. We were told to go home.
Unfortunately a few minutes after the gates had been locked behind us the boy was taken in a jeep with the soldiers, to a prison somewhere outside of Ramallah. Sitting outside the Police Station with his mother in tears and his poor father wringing his hands in despair I felt worse than useless. Small consolation was the fact that even if I had been a lawyer it probably wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference.
Having never previously travelled in Israel proper it was interesting, if a little daunting, to gain a different perspective and be able to see the contrast between Israel and Palestine in its incredulous reality. On the way to the central bus station in West Jerusalem, crowded and dishevelled streets quickly gave way to smart shiny buildings, glamourous shopfronts and strictly Orthodox Jewish neighbourhoods. To enter the bus station itself one must first navigate through the airport-style security- baggage x-rays, metal detectors. Somewhat ironic, as once inside the station, the place was crowded of youths, girls and boys, clad in military fatigues, all with enormous guns slung uncomfortably over their shoulders or between their legs, as they hung around picking at sandwiches and waiting for buses.
The bus route towards Egypt hugs the length of the multi-coloured shores of dead sea, tracing the border with Jordan through rocky, mountainous desert. The final stop in Israel's south is Eilat- a Disneyland style collection of ghastly hotels and tacky seafront stands selling holiday tat, with an airport strip running through the centre. Needless to say I got out as quickly as I could. To my relief once I had crossed the Taba border, through the deserted immigration building in to Egypt the picture again became familiar- a few old men sitting around battered taxi cabs, smoking cigarettes and shading their wrinkled brown faces from the baking sun. And waiting for punters. "Sabah al gheeeeeeeeeer!" (good morning).
I spent the week on the windy promotory of Dahab, gazing at the fishes and swimming in the jewel blue waters of the Gulf of Aqaba before returning, finally unwound, to Abu Dis. But of course there was little respite. Before I even had time to count my freckles and wash the salt from my hairI received a telephone call to say that a child of fourteen had been arrested on his way home from school. The child who was asthmatic, needed his medecine and the family were hoping that I could help them negotiate their way in to the Police Station at a nearby settlement to see their son.
So I went with them. We were confronted at the entrance by two soldiers, the first of whom in no uncertain terms told us to go home. I spoke to the second soldier, explaining that the boy's mother just wanted to give him some medecine. After a few minutes a couple of residents from the settlement arrived- two men who looked something like self-styled 'security'. I was gruffly asked several times whether I was a lawyer and what I wanted. We were eventually let through to the police station, where we saw the boy in question sitting handcuffed, surrounded by six or so soldiers. The Police Officer behind the desk saw us, and quickly clocked that an allowance must have been made. The soldiers rallied round and we were all pushed outside.
I imagine that any of you reading this who have children would feel that if your son was arrested, you at least had the right to know that his basic health needs were being met. Also you would expect to be told why he was arrested and how long he would be held for. You would probably expect that there would be some kind of representation, a lawyer, a trial, maybe visiting arrangements. Also some evidence or witnesses to the crime.
Not here. The crime in this case? I asked the Police Officer who was busy shouting rudely at the boy's parents:
"What do you want to know? Are you a laywer? Do you have a problem? This boy was thowing stones at army jeeps, the soldiers saw him."
Just to rewind a little. We are talking about a Palestinian town whose security forces are entirely in the hands of the occupying power. The boy was taken whilst on his way home from school, to a Police Station in an illegally built settlement. The crime was throwing stones. This boy, who was on his way home from school, was denied basic rights of representation, a trial, visiting rights for his family. Yet it was us who were asked what we were doing at the Police Station. We were told to go home.
Unfortunately a few minutes after the gates had been locked behind us the boy was taken in a jeep with the soldiers, to a prison somewhere outside of Ramallah. Sitting outside the Police Station with his mother in tears and his poor father wringing his hands in despair I felt worse than useless. Small consolation was the fact that even if I had been a lawyer it probably wouldn't have made a blind bit of difference.
Tuesday, May 22, 2007
Hebron
The city of Hebron, in the South of the West Bank is historic, beautiful and troubled. I and a friend arrived somewhat miraculously after a trecherous journey through Wadi Nar, Fire Valley, the only road which connects the South to the rest of the West Bank (for Palestinians- Israelis are given a safer bi-pass road to use). It consists of a thin threading road which loops perilously around its sun baked hills, clinging to the side of the slopes which lead to Bethlehem. Our time of travel happened to coincide exactly with a freak rainstorm, almost unheard of in May.
So the road's surface quickly turned in to an oil slick and within a couple of minutes we were in sight of its first casualty, a bus which had slid off the side of the road and toppled over. A km or so ahead, a line of traffic stood stacked up, waiting for trucks and lorries to lumber down the valley, crowding the road.
One of the most endearing qualities of the Palestininian people is their very loose embrace with concepts of time. Rushing around madly like us Brits is completely incomprehensible to them; afternoons and evenings can be happily whiled away sipping shai in the garden or talking politics on street corners. Telling someone "I'm sorry I have to be going" will inevitably cause disappointment, and generate confused and furrowed brows- for each other, people here have all the time in the world.
However, put a Palestinian behind the wheel of a car and a different story emerges. This day. on the perilously narrow and slippery road which was fast turning in to a river, the only careful drivers were the clumsy lorries edging their way round the loops and bends towards the bottom of the valley. Chaos ensued when oncoming traffic, horns blaring, formed not one, or two, but three layers of cars all trying to take each other over in a reckless bid to round the corner on the steeply inclined road. Wheels started spinning as some of the cars started sliding backwards down the road towards us. Our judicious driver quickly formed lane number four and sped us up the wrong side of the road, pass the mess of metal and steamy windows.
When we made it to the top of the hill I nearly launched my diatribe of how great it was that the British knew how to queue- but hell, who am I to cast stones. Shortly after that we replaced our waning blood sugar levels at a nearby cake shop in Bethlehem and drove on to Hebron, smiling with relief.
Approaching the city, the ubiquitous settlements lay sprawled across the nearby hills with their regular shaped red roofed houses, swimming pools and services, modern and clean. A few miles further on, barricades, barbed wire and disused checkpoints marked the beginnings of the shabby suburbs of Hebron . Nothing new here except perhaps the size and proximity of the encroaching illegal settlements, built on confiscated Palestinian land and feeding off its natural resources, much needed by the local population.
However once inside the old city things were different. Within the old city, about two hundred Israeli settlers have etablished themeselves in small enclaves. Most of their living quarters are confiscated Palestinian homes, some have built homes on top of these houses above the narrow streets of the old Souq, market. So this provides a perfect vantage point for them to throw rubbish, stones and other objects upon the heads of the poor local Palestinian people trying to do their shopping a couple of floors below. Above our heads were a system of nets and wires, put up by the locals in a sad-looking attempt to protect themseleves and their children from the objects lobbed at them by settlers.
To protect and provide 'security' for these two hundred illegal settlers are around 2000 Israeli soldiers, as well as a system of checkpoints and barricades within the heart of the old city. We walked through the shadowy and silent streets of the old market. The shop fronts were all padlocked up, aside from the odd stall or two. "This is because the shopkeepers here were being harrassed so much by the settlers and the soldiers", Ali told us. "They were too afraid, they all left. Ten years ago these streets used to be busy, alive with people. But now there's nothing"
We passed through a checkpoint built in to the old stone walls, a turnstile, a metal detector, a narrow passageway leading towards daylight and a few soldiers waiting by the exit. This was the Palestininan entrance to the city's main mosque.
At a nearby barrier we chanced an interchange with a soldier, a young women who had approached us to 'check' what we were doing.
"Where are you from?" She asked. So we asked her the same question.
"I'm from Haifa." She said. I asked her how long women were obliged to do military service.
"Two years, same as men. More if we are called up again." That's a really long time.
"Is it worth it?" I asked. "Would you do it for your country?" she replied.
Well, if it actually was my country, I thought. And no, I wouldn't anyway! But of course I thought better than to get embroiled in politics on a street corner with a soldier, and instead politely asked permission to take a few photos of the deserted streets with their Star of David buntings flapping pathetically in the wind.
We later went to visit some volunteers from the Christian Peacemakers Team who have maintained a presence in Hebron since 1994. During this time they have monitored checkpoints and accompanied Palestininan children to school, who would be otherwise subject to attacks, threats and other abusive behaviour from the settlers. From the rooftop of the CPT's apartment, we were given a clearer picture of how the city was divided by the Israelis. A soldier paraded a nearby rooftop. The houses next door, now mostly empty, still contained a few residents. The front of these people's houses face a road which is opposite a large cemetary. This road has now been designated for Israeli use only. So the residents are no longer able to use the front door of their own houses, and are instead forced to use ladders to climb up to the back doors or window of their own houses, some having to pass through the inside of their neighbours' houses in order to reach their own. The CPT told me that they sometimes found people praying outside their front door, as this was the closest that these poor people were able to get to the graves of their deceased relatives.
As a thanks for this valuable work, members of the CPT have been kicked, spat on and on two occasions hospitalised by settlers whilst walking through the streets.
From what I saw in the short time I spent in Hebron, this was Occupation in its most unabated, unabashed and vicious form, making daily lives miserable and in many cases impossible for the people of this ancient and beautiful city.
So the road's surface quickly turned in to an oil slick and within a couple of minutes we were in sight of its first casualty, a bus which had slid off the side of the road and toppled over. A km or so ahead, a line of traffic stood stacked up, waiting for trucks and lorries to lumber down the valley, crowding the road.
One of the most endearing qualities of the Palestininian people is their very loose embrace with concepts of time. Rushing around madly like us Brits is completely incomprehensible to them; afternoons and evenings can be happily whiled away sipping shai in the garden or talking politics on street corners. Telling someone "I'm sorry I have to be going" will inevitably cause disappointment, and generate confused and furrowed brows- for each other, people here have all the time in the world.
However, put a Palestinian behind the wheel of a car and a different story emerges. This day. on the perilously narrow and slippery road which was fast turning in to a river, the only careful drivers were the clumsy lorries edging their way round the loops and bends towards the bottom of the valley. Chaos ensued when oncoming traffic, horns blaring, formed not one, or two, but three layers of cars all trying to take each other over in a reckless bid to round the corner on the steeply inclined road. Wheels started spinning as some of the cars started sliding backwards down the road towards us. Our judicious driver quickly formed lane number four and sped us up the wrong side of the road, pass the mess of metal and steamy windows.
When we made it to the top of the hill I nearly launched my diatribe of how great it was that the British knew how to queue- but hell, who am I to cast stones. Shortly after that we replaced our waning blood sugar levels at a nearby cake shop in Bethlehem and drove on to Hebron, smiling with relief.
Approaching the city, the ubiquitous settlements lay sprawled across the nearby hills with their regular shaped red roofed houses, swimming pools and services, modern and clean. A few miles further on, barricades, barbed wire and disused checkpoints marked the beginnings of the shabby suburbs of Hebron . Nothing new here except perhaps the size and proximity of the encroaching illegal settlements, built on confiscated Palestinian land and feeding off its natural resources, much needed by the local population.
However once inside the old city things were different. Within the old city, about two hundred Israeli settlers have etablished themeselves in small enclaves. Most of their living quarters are confiscated Palestinian homes, some have built homes on top of these houses above the narrow streets of the old Souq, market. So this provides a perfect vantage point for them to throw rubbish, stones and other objects upon the heads of the poor local Palestinian people trying to do their shopping a couple of floors below. Above our heads were a system of nets and wires, put up by the locals in a sad-looking attempt to protect themseleves and their children from the objects lobbed at them by settlers.
To protect and provide 'security' for these two hundred illegal settlers are around 2000 Israeli soldiers, as well as a system of checkpoints and barricades within the heart of the old city. We walked through the shadowy and silent streets of the old market. The shop fronts were all padlocked up, aside from the odd stall or two. "This is because the shopkeepers here were being harrassed so much by the settlers and the soldiers", Ali told us. "They were too afraid, they all left. Ten years ago these streets used to be busy, alive with people. But now there's nothing"
We passed through a checkpoint built in to the old stone walls, a turnstile, a metal detector, a narrow passageway leading towards daylight and a few soldiers waiting by the exit. This was the Palestininan entrance to the city's main mosque.
At a nearby barrier we chanced an interchange with a soldier, a young women who had approached us to 'check' what we were doing.
"Where are you from?" She asked. So we asked her the same question.
"I'm from Haifa." She said. I asked her how long women were obliged to do military service.
"Two years, same as men. More if we are called up again." That's a really long time.
"Is it worth it?" I asked. "Would you do it for your country?" she replied.
Well, if it actually was my country, I thought. And no, I wouldn't anyway! But of course I thought better than to get embroiled in politics on a street corner with a soldier, and instead politely asked permission to take a few photos of the deserted streets with their Star of David buntings flapping pathetically in the wind.
We later went to visit some volunteers from the Christian Peacemakers Team who have maintained a presence in Hebron since 1994. During this time they have monitored checkpoints and accompanied Palestininan children to school, who would be otherwise subject to attacks, threats and other abusive behaviour from the settlers. From the rooftop of the CPT's apartment, we were given a clearer picture of how the city was divided by the Israelis. A soldier paraded a nearby rooftop. The houses next door, now mostly empty, still contained a few residents. The front of these people's houses face a road which is opposite a large cemetary. This road has now been designated for Israeli use only. So the residents are no longer able to use the front door of their own houses, and are instead forced to use ladders to climb up to the back doors or window of their own houses, some having to pass through the inside of their neighbours' houses in order to reach their own. The CPT told me that they sometimes found people praying outside their front door, as this was the closest that these poor people were able to get to the graves of their deceased relatives.
As a thanks for this valuable work, members of the CPT have been kicked, spat on and on two occasions hospitalised by settlers whilst walking through the streets.
From what I saw in the short time I spent in Hebron, this was Occupation in its most unabated, unabashed and vicious form, making daily lives miserable and in many cases impossible for the people of this ancient and beautiful city.
Monday, May 14, 2007
A night to remember
I am coming to the conclusion that Israel's indomitable might is most effectively wielded in the control of its public image to the rest of the world. Crimes which would cause international outrage and condemnation when committed by 'terrorist and undemocratic' states go mostly unreported when committed against the people of Palestine.
Yesterday we went to visit Mohammed, a fifteen year old boy from AD who had been taken from his family home by soldiers at three o clock in the morning, blindfolded and tied up by his hands. His father, after pleading for sometime, allowed him to put some clothes on before dragging him out of the house. The soldiers took him to a nearby settlement. Mohammed described how the soldiers refused to let him go to the toilet, and instead kicked him repeatedly in the stomach and between the legs. The soldiers then made him sign a 'confession' (in Hebrew) that he had been 'amongst' or witness to, a group of boys who had thrown molotovs and stones at an army jeep. Mohammed was beaten so badly that he required hospital treatment. Upon his leaving the hospital, the soldiers confiscated the paper which the doctors had given him confirming he had received the treatment.
So Mohammed, a child, who knows nothing about the alleged incident, has now signed a document, legal in Israel's military courts, in a language he cannot read or understand, to say that he is guilty of a 'crime' he did not commit ( which, incidentally, is punishable with up to three years in prison). The soldiers have warned Mohammed that if his family publicises his case or makes any kind of complaint, they will have to pay Mohammed's hospital bill and he will hauled off to prison.
Whilst at the house I also met Mohammed's grandmother, a small, papery- thin old woman, well into her eighties. She rolled up her sleeve and proffered me her forearm. It was covered in purple blue bruises. This woman had fallen down quite badly a few days prior to our visit. One of her relatives who has a blue 'Jerusalem" ID, took her in his car to try and get to the nearest hospital. However the old lady was not allowed to pass through the checkpoint due to, of course, Security Reasons.
Also at the visit was Abed, who is CADFA's hardworking local coordinator as well as an encylopaedia of Palestinian history and policitics. Of course, as I am still battling daily with the Arabic language I relied mainly on Mohammed's demonstrative gestures of where he was kicked and how he was tied up and blindfolded, which to be honest was quite enough to get the gist.
Abed had called up a member an Israeli Human Rights organisation, BTselem, who documented this awful story and will, we hope, take the case up on the family's behalf.
Think this is an isolated case? Think again because it happens daily. Around 90% of Palestinian men have been arrested, detained, or spent one or more periods in one of Israel's 30 jails in the West Bank.
Many of my English lessons have involved trying to help students translate methods of interrogation and psychological torture which routinely occur in the prisons. I was interested to learn that one of the darker of these was actually 'testing out' unapproved drugs on prisoners, sort of like humam guinea-pigs. Whilst at home one day, we went outside after hearing someone shouting in the olive field at the end of my garden. It turned out to be a local man who had been inside Israeli jails, and as well as being subject to psychological torture, had been given some kind of injection which has left him with permanent psychological problems. Of course there is no way to find out what he was given as whatever it was is not legally available.
Did I tell you the one about the pregnant woman whose seven month old unborn baby was shot in the head whilst her mother was in her home during an Israeli 'operation' in a refugee camp in Jenin?
Anyway that's probably enough for now isn't it. I have of course, been having fun as well. This morning I had my last lesson at a local boy's school, where the students are so enthusiatic that they have, to my amusement, previously fallen off their chairs in their haste to be the first to answer questions. After the lesson I am proffered chocolate bars and sugary drinks by the teacher and whilst eating the conversation often turns to what British People are like, why we don't really go to church, how we live together without being married, amongst other curious facts of our society which seems so far away from life here.
But of course, as people, our fundamentals are always the same. An evening in Jericho last night began with me showing (Doctor) Abdullah and his son how to doggy paddle in the shallow end of one of Jericho's deserted swimming pools; continued with us walking, unable to find a taxi, in the dark on a main road and dancing like clowns to Black Eyed Peas on my walkman and crappy speakers; and ended at restaurant with me trying to fit a whole onion in my mouth whilst drinking Palestinian beer. Yes they even make beer here! Alhamdillalah.
Yesterday we went to visit Mohammed, a fifteen year old boy from AD who had been taken from his family home by soldiers at three o clock in the morning, blindfolded and tied up by his hands. His father, after pleading for sometime, allowed him to put some clothes on before dragging him out of the house. The soldiers took him to a nearby settlement. Mohammed described how the soldiers refused to let him go to the toilet, and instead kicked him repeatedly in the stomach and between the legs. The soldiers then made him sign a 'confession' (in Hebrew) that he had been 'amongst' or witness to, a group of boys who had thrown molotovs and stones at an army jeep. Mohammed was beaten so badly that he required hospital treatment. Upon his leaving the hospital, the soldiers confiscated the paper which the doctors had given him confirming he had received the treatment.
So Mohammed, a child, who knows nothing about the alleged incident, has now signed a document, legal in Israel's military courts, in a language he cannot read or understand, to say that he is guilty of a 'crime' he did not commit ( which, incidentally, is punishable with up to three years in prison). The soldiers have warned Mohammed that if his family publicises his case or makes any kind of complaint, they will have to pay Mohammed's hospital bill and he will hauled off to prison.
Whilst at the house I also met Mohammed's grandmother, a small, papery- thin old woman, well into her eighties. She rolled up her sleeve and proffered me her forearm. It was covered in purple blue bruises. This woman had fallen down quite badly a few days prior to our visit. One of her relatives who has a blue 'Jerusalem" ID, took her in his car to try and get to the nearest hospital. However the old lady was not allowed to pass through the checkpoint due to, of course, Security Reasons.
Also at the visit was Abed, who is CADFA's hardworking local coordinator as well as an encylopaedia of Palestinian history and policitics. Of course, as I am still battling daily with the Arabic language I relied mainly on Mohammed's demonstrative gestures of where he was kicked and how he was tied up and blindfolded, which to be honest was quite enough to get the gist.
Abed had called up a member an Israeli Human Rights organisation, BTselem, who documented this awful story and will, we hope, take the case up on the family's behalf.
Think this is an isolated case? Think again because it happens daily. Around 90% of Palestinian men have been arrested, detained, or spent one or more periods in one of Israel's 30 jails in the West Bank.
Many of my English lessons have involved trying to help students translate methods of interrogation and psychological torture which routinely occur in the prisons. I was interested to learn that one of the darker of these was actually 'testing out' unapproved drugs on prisoners, sort of like humam guinea-pigs. Whilst at home one day, we went outside after hearing someone shouting in the olive field at the end of my garden. It turned out to be a local man who had been inside Israeli jails, and as well as being subject to psychological torture, had been given some kind of injection which has left him with permanent psychological problems. Of course there is no way to find out what he was given as whatever it was is not legally available.
Did I tell you the one about the pregnant woman whose seven month old unborn baby was shot in the head whilst her mother was in her home during an Israeli 'operation' in a refugee camp in Jenin?
Anyway that's probably enough for now isn't it. I have of course, been having fun as well. This morning I had my last lesson at a local boy's school, where the students are so enthusiatic that they have, to my amusement, previously fallen off their chairs in their haste to be the first to answer questions. After the lesson I am proffered chocolate bars and sugary drinks by the teacher and whilst eating the conversation often turns to what British People are like, why we don't really go to church, how we live together without being married, amongst other curious facts of our society which seems so far away from life here.
But of course, as people, our fundamentals are always the same. An evening in Jericho last night began with me showing (Doctor) Abdullah and his son how to doggy paddle in the shallow end of one of Jericho's deserted swimming pools; continued with us walking, unable to find a taxi, in the dark on a main road and dancing like clowns to Black Eyed Peas on my walkman and crappy speakers; and ended at restaurant with me trying to fit a whole onion in my mouth whilst drinking Palestinian beer. Yes they even make beer here! Alhamdillalah.
Thursday, May 3, 2007
Wake-up call
The other day I was woken up at about six am by a loud banging on my bedroom door- I stumbled out as Najah (my present Palestinian mum) dragged me to the window to show me two military jeeps pulling away. Whilst I was sleeping peacefully six soldiers had arrived at the door of our house with four more waiting outside. They were 'enquiring' about Ahmed, one of the sons of the family who studies in the North of the West Bank and who was coming home to visit that day. Ahmed's father was given a piece of paper and told to come to the checkpoint in the nearest town at midday. I decided to go with him. At the checkpoint we duly waited with about fifty other people, some waiting for permits, some waiting to pass, and a few others, who apparently had been 'summoned' by the captain, as in my family's case.
Having waited for four hours and still spoken to no-one, Ahmed's father was told to go home, and advised that his son would be 'summoned' later. After this pointless exercise, I can only conclude that Israel's military budget must be large enough to be able to choose Spielberg-style special effects and extras over popping a letter through someone's door in the banal manner of the rest of the world. I wondered whether ten armed soldiers were really necessary to deliver a piece of paper which was meaningless anyway. Nevertheless, the unspoken yet crassly overstated motive of frightening and intimidating the family did at least work like a charm.
On a more positive note, this town is really growing on me. The hamzeen wind has spent a few day blowing gusts through the town, kicking up the dust and sending cans and papers scuffing through the streets. Herds of sheep and goats come wandering through the streets looking for somewhere to graze- it makes me laugh to see a bunch of sheep chewing around the stones in the nearby graveyard. It is now too hot to walk any great distance uphill, but fortuitously enough I usually only need walk a few metres until someone I know pulls up to offer me a lift in a rickety old car, or I am prised off the street and in to someone's home for fizzy drinks, and then tea, and then coffee, roasted with cardamom and then boiled and drunk without filtering, like a think black gritty sugary soup.
And I am off now to play with my new badminton set which I bought for a pound. Brilliant.
Having waited for four hours and still spoken to no-one, Ahmed's father was told to go home, and advised that his son would be 'summoned' later. After this pointless exercise, I can only conclude that Israel's military budget must be large enough to be able to choose Spielberg-style special effects and extras over popping a letter through someone's door in the banal manner of the rest of the world. I wondered whether ten armed soldiers were really necessary to deliver a piece of paper which was meaningless anyway. Nevertheless, the unspoken yet crassly overstated motive of frightening and intimidating the family did at least work like a charm.
On a more positive note, this town is really growing on me. The hamzeen wind has spent a few day blowing gusts through the town, kicking up the dust and sending cans and papers scuffing through the streets. Herds of sheep and goats come wandering through the streets looking for somewhere to graze- it makes me laugh to see a bunch of sheep chewing around the stones in the nearby graveyard. It is now too hot to walk any great distance uphill, but fortuitously enough I usually only need walk a few metres until someone I know pulls up to offer me a lift in a rickety old car, or I am prised off the street and in to someone's home for fizzy drinks, and then tea, and then coffee, roasted with cardamom and then boiled and drunk without filtering, like a think black gritty sugary soup.
And I am off now to play with my new badminton set which I bought for a pound. Brilliant.
Children in prison
These are not my words- I took the following information from a website called Defence for Children International- it explains far better than I can about the situation with child prisoners in Palestine. Please have a read (and hope I am not arrested for plagiarism, ha ha)...
PALESTINIAN CHILDREN DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO A FAIR TRIAL UNDER THE ISRAELI MILITARY COURT SYSTEM
In the 40 th year of Israel 's military occupation of the Palestinian territories, Tuesday 17 April 2007 marked Palestinian Prisoner's Day.
Currently there are approximately 380 Palestinian children in Israeli custody, many of whom are awaiting trial or sentence, and others who are serving lengthy periods of imprisonment for such minor offences as stone throwing.
Article 40 of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, to which the State of Israel is a signatory and State Party, gives children the right to a fair trial, the right to liberty while awaiting trial, the right to be heard, the right to privacy, the right to be informed, to have access to a lawyer and support from family and to be treated with dignity during the trial process.
Israel arrests, detains, interrogates, prosecutes and sentences Palestinian children pursuant to a set of Military Orders issued by commanding officers of the Israeli occupying forces, a system which has existed since Israel 's occupation of the Palestinian territories in 1967. Palestinian children who are arrested by Israeli military personnel are deemed by Israel to be offenders against the “security” of the Israeli State and are subsequently prosecuted under the Israeli military system in Military Courts; a system which also prosecutes Palestinian adults.
The Military Court system and procedure, on the surface, can be compared to that of a jurisdiction of criminal prosecution however the specific rules and Military Orders which operate within the Court are conducive to Israel 's occupation of the Palestinian territories and cancel out any opportunity or right a Palestinian may have to a fair trial.
Israeli Military Order 132 defines a Palestinian child as a person under the age of 16 and those children over the age of 16 are sentenced as adults and imprisoned with adults. Palestinian children are subjected to the same arrest, interrogation, trial and imprisonment procedures as adults, by the Israeli State .
Palestinian children, when under the arrest of Israeli soldiers, are not advised of their rights, are not given immediate access to a lawyer or contact with a parent, guardian, other adult relative or an independent support person. Palestinian children are deprived the right to a family visit while held in a detention centre for interrogation, which can last several weeks but even after the conclusion of interrogation, a Palestinian child may remain in a detention centre for an indefinite period where family visits are not allowed. Palestinian children can be deprived a visit from a lawyer while under interrogation for security reasons and under Israeli military law, this can last up to 90 days. In some circumstances, a Palestinian child may only meet his lawyer for the first time at the first court appearance in the Military Court .
Most Palestinian children are detained from the moment of their arrest until the end of legal proceedings. They are usually arrested in their homes in the middle of the night by numerous armed Israeli soldiers and are rarely granted bail by the Military Court .
Palestinian children are interrogated in detention centers and in many circumstances are assaulted, beaten and tortured during the interrogation process. Torture methods include psychological threats of harm to or imprisonment of family members.
The Military Court is neither adversarial nor inquisitorial. Military Court judges are Israeli legal practitioners either employed by or members of the Israeli army, and are not independently appointed as judicial officers through the executive authority of the Israeli government. Military Court prosecutors are also Israeli army personnel.
The Military Court (both the judiciary and the prosecution) relies heavily on the confession of a Palestinian child. In this regard, there are no rules of evidence in the Military Court . A confession is obtained by coercion during the interrogation process. A confession is the main piece of information or “evidence” used against a Palestinian child in the Military Court . A confession is in effect, the prosecutor's case and can also be used to implicate other Palestinian child prisoners both in Court proceedings and in interrogation.
The confession, regardless of how it has been obtained, forms the bases of the indictment against the child. It is what the child has to respond to in entering a guilty or not guilty plea before the Military Court . There are no civilian, forensic or military personnel witness statements, whether oral or written, presented to the Military Court or a Palestinian child's Defense lawyer before this plea is entered. In effect, this shifts the burden of proof on the Defense making it extremely difficult to challenge a confession.
All Palestinian children brought before the Israeli military court are sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Israel uses imprisonment as a measure of first resort for Palestinian children; there are very few cases of children who receive alternative sentences.
During their imprisonment, Palestinian children are exposed to varying forms of punishment for minor offences including being placed in solitary confinement, deprivation from family visits, financial penalties withdrawn from their prison accounts, and ongoing restrictions to going outdoors. Palestinian child prisoners also do not have the same rights as Israeli child prisoners, for example they do not have the right to make telephone calls.
Defence for Children International Palestine views the military system imposed on Palestinian society by Israel as a discriminatory system that violates core principals of human rights. Military Orders and Military Order enforcement officials are tools used by the executive authority of the Israeli government in its occupation of the Palestinian territories, to oppress and suppress Palestinian children, and to overall undermine their right to life, survival and development.
PALESTINIAN CHILDREN DO NOT HAVE THE RIGHT TO A FAIR TRIAL UNDER THE ISRAELI MILITARY COURT SYSTEM
In the 40 th year of Israel 's military occupation of the Palestinian territories, Tuesday 17 April 2007 marked Palestinian Prisoner's Day.
Currently there are approximately 380 Palestinian children in Israeli custody, many of whom are awaiting trial or sentence, and others who are serving lengthy periods of imprisonment for such minor offences as stone throwing.
Article 40 of the United Nations Convention on the Rights of the Child, to which the State of Israel is a signatory and State Party, gives children the right to a fair trial, the right to liberty while awaiting trial, the right to be heard, the right to privacy, the right to be informed, to have access to a lawyer and support from family and to be treated with dignity during the trial process.
Israel arrests, detains, interrogates, prosecutes and sentences Palestinian children pursuant to a set of Military Orders issued by commanding officers of the Israeli occupying forces, a system which has existed since Israel 's occupation of the Palestinian territories in 1967. Palestinian children who are arrested by Israeli military personnel are deemed by Israel to be offenders against the “security” of the Israeli State and are subsequently prosecuted under the Israeli military system in Military Courts; a system which also prosecutes Palestinian adults.
The Military Court system and procedure, on the surface, can be compared to that of a jurisdiction of criminal prosecution however the specific rules and Military Orders which operate within the Court are conducive to Israel 's occupation of the Palestinian territories and cancel out any opportunity or right a Palestinian may have to a fair trial.
Israeli Military Order 132 defines a Palestinian child as a person under the age of 16 and those children over the age of 16 are sentenced as adults and imprisoned with adults. Palestinian children are subjected to the same arrest, interrogation, trial and imprisonment procedures as adults, by the Israeli State .
Palestinian children, when under the arrest of Israeli soldiers, are not advised of their rights, are not given immediate access to a lawyer or contact with a parent, guardian, other adult relative or an independent support person. Palestinian children are deprived the right to a family visit while held in a detention centre for interrogation, which can last several weeks but even after the conclusion of interrogation, a Palestinian child may remain in a detention centre for an indefinite period where family visits are not allowed. Palestinian children can be deprived a visit from a lawyer while under interrogation for security reasons and under Israeli military law, this can last up to 90 days. In some circumstances, a Palestinian child may only meet his lawyer for the first time at the first court appearance in the Military Court .
Most Palestinian children are detained from the moment of their arrest until the end of legal proceedings. They are usually arrested in their homes in the middle of the night by numerous armed Israeli soldiers and are rarely granted bail by the Military Court .
Palestinian children are interrogated in detention centers and in many circumstances are assaulted, beaten and tortured during the interrogation process. Torture methods include psychological threats of harm to or imprisonment of family members.
The Military Court is neither adversarial nor inquisitorial. Military Court judges are Israeli legal practitioners either employed by or members of the Israeli army, and are not independently appointed as judicial officers through the executive authority of the Israeli government. Military Court prosecutors are also Israeli army personnel.
The Military Court (both the judiciary and the prosecution) relies heavily on the confession of a Palestinian child. In this regard, there are no rules of evidence in the Military Court . A confession is obtained by coercion during the interrogation process. A confession is the main piece of information or “evidence” used against a Palestinian child in the Military Court . A confession is in effect, the prosecutor's case and can also be used to implicate other Palestinian child prisoners both in Court proceedings and in interrogation.
The confession, regardless of how it has been obtained, forms the bases of the indictment against the child. It is what the child has to respond to in entering a guilty or not guilty plea before the Military Court . There are no civilian, forensic or military personnel witness statements, whether oral or written, presented to the Military Court or a Palestinian child's Defense lawyer before this plea is entered. In effect, this shifts the burden of proof on the Defense making it extremely difficult to challenge a confession.
All Palestinian children brought before the Israeli military court are sentenced to a term of imprisonment. Israel uses imprisonment as a measure of first resort for Palestinian children; there are very few cases of children who receive alternative sentences.
During their imprisonment, Palestinian children are exposed to varying forms of punishment for minor offences including being placed in solitary confinement, deprivation from family visits, financial penalties withdrawn from their prison accounts, and ongoing restrictions to going outdoors. Palestinian child prisoners also do not have the same rights as Israeli child prisoners, for example they do not have the right to make telephone calls.
Defence for Children International Palestine views the military system imposed on Palestinian society by Israel as a discriminatory system that violates core principals of human rights. Military Orders and Military Order enforcement officials are tools used by the executive authority of the Israeli government in its occupation of the Palestinian territories, to oppress and suppress Palestinian children, and to overall undermine their right to life, survival and development.
Saturday, April 28, 2007
All Roads Lead to Jerusalem
The way to Jerusalem for West Bank citizens is not, as I recently discovered, the same way which I had used previously when I travelled alone to Jerusalem. With a foreign passport, or a blue Israeli ID, one can head there via a major road, on a bus, more or less unhindered.
A couple of days ago I went to the British Consulate in Jerusalem with a few women who have been invited to England for a delegation tour. In order to obtain a one-day permit to Jerusalem, one of the women, Reda, had waited ten hours at a checkpoint to get the necessary papers for herself and the others.
So at eight o clock the next day, papers in hand, we were dropped off at the checkpoint in the nearby town of Bethany (I hope you're clocking this one, Jesus). The checkpoint here is about the size of a small airport, flanked by the looming grey wall, and a watch-tower. Outside the entrance, a bunch of people were standing, bunched-up, waiting with hopeless and confused expressions, trying to peer through the metal grills and turnstiles. Several metres beyond this barricade, a box containing a couple of soldiers behind bullet-proof glass, barked intermittently in Hebrew at the small crowd, through microphones and a tannoy. Bullet-proof vested security guards had also been generously provided to avoid any 'misunderstandings' . The ever present soldiers slouched around their jeeps, stubbing out cigarettes in the dirt and cocking their guns.
After being shouted at in Hebrew for a bit, folk outside began milling around and shaking their heads and some to walk away. Perhaps no permits for anyone today.
Thanks to Reda who had waited all day yesterday we went through the turnstile one by one, eyed by the soldiers. Next step, metal detectors and a baggage X-ray, and another turnstile. More soldiers behind glass. Here we put our papers/ passports through a small hole to be inspected.
My passport was lazily leafed through and then returned. One more turnstile. Then outside. Welcome to Jerusalem. Have a Nice Day!
On the other side we were unable to get a taxi, as the women have green IDs and there were still more checkpoints to pass through. So we walked up the Mount of Olives, and up, and up for about forty-five minutes, under the sun, before we were able to catch a bus. The bus, of course, was stopped after a short while so more soldiers could get on the bus and check all the men's IDs. Gets repetitive doesn't it?
The whole experience left me feeling incredibly angry and humiliated for my friends, who were of course, unlike myself, stoic and patient throughout the whole degrading process. This is a daily experience for many people who live in the West Bank- and of course displaying frustration or anger anywhere near a soldier/checkpoint isn't going to get you through to the other side. Likely as not it could get you a beating from the soldiers, which is what Reda told me had happened the previous day.
So this is the road to Jerusalem, for those who need hospital treatment, to get to work, or to visit family and friends.....
On returning to AD that afternoon I met a friend who dejectedly told me that he had been waiting for four hours at the same checkpoint, hoping to get a permit for his sister to visit him from the other side of the wall. It so happened that somebody, somewhere in Jerusalem that day had thrown a stone at a military vehicle and so no permits were being issued for anybody that day. So he returned empty handed.
Another friend here, Abed, who is a doctor, was explaining to me that, as he had an uncle who had previously been involved in politics, neither he nor his extended family are now even allowed to apply for permits. They will all just be refused.
However, of course, once inside we capitalised on our good fortune and spent the day gloriously, trying on shoes anc clothes, eating falafels and buying sweets and treats from the Muslim Quarter in the Old city. Also a good deal of time was spent attempting to convince some soldiers-with me dressed in a hijab and grinning like an idiot at the spectacle of myself- to let us through as a group to visit the Al Aqsa Mosque. My turn to be refused. Ah well.
A couple of days ago I went to the British Consulate in Jerusalem with a few women who have been invited to England for a delegation tour. In order to obtain a one-day permit to Jerusalem, one of the women, Reda, had waited ten hours at a checkpoint to get the necessary papers for herself and the others.
So at eight o clock the next day, papers in hand, we were dropped off at the checkpoint in the nearby town of Bethany (I hope you're clocking this one, Jesus). The checkpoint here is about the size of a small airport, flanked by the looming grey wall, and a watch-tower. Outside the entrance, a bunch of people were standing, bunched-up, waiting with hopeless and confused expressions, trying to peer through the metal grills and turnstiles. Several metres beyond this barricade, a box containing a couple of soldiers behind bullet-proof glass, barked intermittently in Hebrew at the small crowd, through microphones and a tannoy. Bullet-proof vested security guards had also been generously provided to avoid any 'misunderstandings' . The ever present soldiers slouched around their jeeps, stubbing out cigarettes in the dirt and cocking their guns.
After being shouted at in Hebrew for a bit, folk outside began milling around and shaking their heads and some to walk away. Perhaps no permits for anyone today.
Thanks to Reda who had waited all day yesterday we went through the turnstile one by one, eyed by the soldiers. Next step, metal detectors and a baggage X-ray, and another turnstile. More soldiers behind glass. Here we put our papers/ passports through a small hole to be inspected.
My passport was lazily leafed through and then returned. One more turnstile. Then outside. Welcome to Jerusalem. Have a Nice Day!
On the other side we were unable to get a taxi, as the women have green IDs and there were still more checkpoints to pass through. So we walked up the Mount of Olives, and up, and up for about forty-five minutes, under the sun, before we were able to catch a bus. The bus, of course, was stopped after a short while so more soldiers could get on the bus and check all the men's IDs. Gets repetitive doesn't it?
The whole experience left me feeling incredibly angry and humiliated for my friends, who were of course, unlike myself, stoic and patient throughout the whole degrading process. This is a daily experience for many people who live in the West Bank- and of course displaying frustration or anger anywhere near a soldier/checkpoint isn't going to get you through to the other side. Likely as not it could get you a beating from the soldiers, which is what Reda told me had happened the previous day.
So this is the road to Jerusalem, for those who need hospital treatment, to get to work, or to visit family and friends.....
On returning to AD that afternoon I met a friend who dejectedly told me that he had been waiting for four hours at the same checkpoint, hoping to get a permit for his sister to visit him from the other side of the wall. It so happened that somebody, somewhere in Jerusalem that day had thrown a stone at a military vehicle and so no permits were being issued for anybody that day. So he returned empty handed.
Another friend here, Abed, who is a doctor, was explaining to me that, as he had an uncle who had previously been involved in politics, neither he nor his extended family are now even allowed to apply for permits. They will all just be refused.
However, of course, once inside we capitalised on our good fortune and spent the day gloriously, trying on shoes anc clothes, eating falafels and buying sweets and treats from the Muslim Quarter in the Old city. Also a good deal of time was spent attempting to convince some soldiers-with me dressed in a hijab and grinning like an idiot at the spectacle of myself- to let us through as a group to visit the Al Aqsa Mosque. My turn to be refused. Ah well.
Monday, April 23, 2007
This Town
Ah yes, I have been thwarted of late by computers and connections generally failing on me, as well as by a general apathy caused by the onset of warm, sunny weather, and sugary tea in the garden.
And so, I am well and truly ensconced here within my new kingdom of Slightly Mad Foreigner, a role which I have decided to embrace, as it cannot be avoided. I find myself being stared at wherever I go, by young and old, men more than women- and so instead of keeping my head down I have on occasion been giving these good folk something to look at, so at least I can be known as 'that lady who sings and dances in the street'.
The thing about AD is that the Separation Wall has changed it from a busy city suburb, to an artificially created small town, inward looking, with the vital organs of Jerusalem and its services lying on the other side of the wall, visible but inaccessible. And so, with around sixty percent unemployment and virtually no recreational facilities, you can't really blame people for seeking distraction.
I am teaching between three or four schools and the Friendship House which was set up by CADFA, the organisation I work for, for community purposes. People here are happy to talk about politics and therefore I often find myself listening more than talking. Without being able to put my finger on it exactly, there is a generally feeling listless about AD. At an individual level, its members are friendly, forthcoming and impassioned- yet a walk around what there is of the town centre quickly reveals a community gradually worn down- an attrition of the town and its natural rhythm. The stench of overflowing rubbish bins guarded by thin cats, kids kicking around deflated footballs, groups of young men sat on walls, staring.
And of course the Wall, the sight of which still never fails to leave me staring myself. It is nine metres high, grey concrete and runs right through the centre (now the edge) of AD. Follow it with your eyes and it winds its way between houses into the hills, encircling the town on two sides. It has cut families and friendships in half by a matter of metres. Its trajectory seems arbitrary- however of course, this is not at all the case. Once the wall is completed, Israel will own, from land it has snatched ilegally, 70 percent of the country's water sources and most of its fertile land -whilst 'protecting', huge (illegal) Israeli settlements, whose white picket fences, rows of orderly houses and pretty copses of conifers lie gleaming white on nearby hill-tops, surrounded by razor wire fencing.
And so, I am well and truly ensconced here within my new kingdom of Slightly Mad Foreigner, a role which I have decided to embrace, as it cannot be avoided. I find myself being stared at wherever I go, by young and old, men more than women- and so instead of keeping my head down I have on occasion been giving these good folk something to look at, so at least I can be known as 'that lady who sings and dances in the street'.
The thing about AD is that the Separation Wall has changed it from a busy city suburb, to an artificially created small town, inward looking, with the vital organs of Jerusalem and its services lying on the other side of the wall, visible but inaccessible. And so, with around sixty percent unemployment and virtually no recreational facilities, you can't really blame people for seeking distraction.
I am teaching between three or four schools and the Friendship House which was set up by CADFA, the organisation I work for, for community purposes. People here are happy to talk about politics and therefore I often find myself listening more than talking. Without being able to put my finger on it exactly, there is a generally feeling listless about AD. At an individual level, its members are friendly, forthcoming and impassioned- yet a walk around what there is of the town centre quickly reveals a community gradually worn down- an attrition of the town and its natural rhythm. The stench of overflowing rubbish bins guarded by thin cats, kids kicking around deflated footballs, groups of young men sat on walls, staring.
And of course the Wall, the sight of which still never fails to leave me staring myself. It is nine metres high, grey concrete and runs right through the centre (now the edge) of AD. Follow it with your eyes and it winds its way between houses into the hills, encircling the town on two sides. It has cut families and friendships in half by a matter of metres. Its trajectory seems arbitrary- however of course, this is not at all the case. Once the wall is completed, Israel will own, from land it has snatched ilegally, 70 percent of the country's water sources and most of its fertile land -whilst 'protecting', huge (illegal) Israeli settlements, whose white picket fences, rows of orderly houses and pretty copses of conifers lie gleaming white on nearby hill-tops, surrounded by razor wire fencing.
Thursday, April 12, 2007
Checkpoints
These are the points where people wait to have their ID inspected. They can range from a block at the side of the road an a couple of incredibly bored, fly-swatting soldiers slumped upon enormous guns, to full-on wire-fenced turnstiles which look a lot like cattle gates leading to an abbatoir. Palestinians are issued with either blue or green identification cards- blue meaning Jerusalem resident (a minority who were fenced in to the Israeli side of the Wall), and green meaning West Bank resident, ie no access to Jerusalem. As the town I am staying in is only around 2km from Jerusalem, for most of the people I meet it has been several years since their last visit to their beloved capital and it's services, as well as their family members 'trapped' on the other side of the wall. Several people have told me that, for those who have the money to travel, it is actully easier to reach London than it is Jerusalem.
Shortly before I arrived to the town, a woman gave birth in a toilet at one of its checkpoints after soliders refused to allow her to pass through.
My first experience of the checkpoints was during a visit on Monday to the northern town of Jenin where I visited some hard-working women's organisations with a group from AD. On the way back we passed around seven checkpoints. Not much problem getting through on the way there; however on the way back, presumably because the road we were on was Jerusalem-bound, we found ourselves queuing in traffic with a road full of other hot and bothered citizens. I took the opportunity to stretch my legs and start snapping photos of the soldiers (for your eventual benefit), whilst chewing on some unripe almonds picked from a nearby tree. We crawled up to the checkpoint.
"Camera. Where's your camera?" the soldier asked. Oops. I went completely white and started looking guilty, having hidden in it in a bag of vegetables at the back of the bus. The women rallied round and spoke to the soliders , in English- of course some solidiers wouldn't dream of learning the native language of the place they are occupying-
"No, no camera here, it was just a phone!" The women, amazingly, are playing along incredibly good-naturedly, bantering with the solidiers, who seem bemused but are having none of it. Of course they had been clocking me taking pictures from one of their nearby omnipresent watch towers. Idiot. After several more minutes of denial (and I very nearly caved and handed over the damned thing, which would have waved goodbye to some 200 odd photos) someone fishes out a camera which fortunately contains nothing incriminating. The soldier seems satisfied and after checking our IDs lets us through. I have learnt my lesson and sit chewing my lip whilst the women whoop, cheer, and start clapping along to the Arabic pop blasting out through the radio whilst we wind our way towards home.
So then, I now know never to take photos of soldiers or checkpoints. So what are the checkpoints for? The Israeli government cite 'security measures'. SO, why are there checkpoints within the West Bank itself, for the Palestinians living their own land? Security actually has little to do with it, and is more about restricting freedom of movement, daily humiliation, subjugation and the destruction of the Palestinians' ability to have any semblance of economic independence (checkpoints disrupt the lives of those travelling to work and study, or trying to transport goods.) And judging from what I have seen thusfar, a daily reminder on behalf of Israel of their occupation of the West Bank using brute military might.
I recently read a book called Check Point Watch which does a far better job of explaing the strategy, and impacts of the checkpoints. Have a look for it if you have time.
I haven't even started on what I'm actually doing here have I? More on that very soon. xx
Shortly before I arrived to the town, a woman gave birth in a toilet at one of its checkpoints after soliders refused to allow her to pass through.
My first experience of the checkpoints was during a visit on Monday to the northern town of Jenin where I visited some hard-working women's organisations with a group from AD. On the way back we passed around seven checkpoints. Not much problem getting through on the way there; however on the way back, presumably because the road we were on was Jerusalem-bound, we found ourselves queuing in traffic with a road full of other hot and bothered citizens. I took the opportunity to stretch my legs and start snapping photos of the soldiers (for your eventual benefit), whilst chewing on some unripe almonds picked from a nearby tree. We crawled up to the checkpoint.
"Camera. Where's your camera?" the soldier asked. Oops. I went completely white and started looking guilty, having hidden in it in a bag of vegetables at the back of the bus. The women rallied round and spoke to the soliders , in English- of course some solidiers wouldn't dream of learning the native language of the place they are occupying-
"No, no camera here, it was just a phone!" The women, amazingly, are playing along incredibly good-naturedly, bantering with the solidiers, who seem bemused but are having none of it. Of course they had been clocking me taking pictures from one of their nearby omnipresent watch towers. Idiot. After several more minutes of denial (and I very nearly caved and handed over the damned thing, which would have waved goodbye to some 200 odd photos) someone fishes out a camera which fortunately contains nothing incriminating. The soldier seems satisfied and after checking our IDs lets us through. I have learnt my lesson and sit chewing my lip whilst the women whoop, cheer, and start clapping along to the Arabic pop blasting out through the radio whilst we wind our way towards home.
So then, I now know never to take photos of soldiers or checkpoints. So what are the checkpoints for? The Israeli government cite 'security measures'. SO, why are there checkpoints within the West Bank itself, for the Palestinians living their own land? Security actually has little to do with it, and is more about restricting freedom of movement, daily humiliation, subjugation and the destruction of the Palestinians' ability to have any semblance of economic independence (checkpoints disrupt the lives of those travelling to work and study, or trying to transport goods.) And judging from what I have seen thusfar, a daily reminder on behalf of Israel of their occupation of the West Bank using brute military might.
I recently read a book called Check Point Watch which does a far better job of explaing the strategy, and impacts of the checkpoints. Have a look for it if you have time.
I haven't even started on what I'm actually doing here have I? More on that very soon. xx
Friday, April 6, 2007
Arrival
Safe and sound in the West Bank. I decided to set up this blog as I was advised that it wasn't a great idea to put my name to anything too 'political' which could be found on the web or my e-mail account. This might sound paranoid but I thought better safe than sorry, just in case I return here in the future- and having lied my way through Ben Gurion airport I feel justified in acting in a slightly shifty manner.
I arrived at Tel Aviv at around four in the morning after having spent several hours on the place devising a tourist 'itinerary' - if you tell Israeli passport control that you are here to spend three months working in solidarity with Palestinians in the West Bank it is very possible that you will be plonked on a plane straight back to England- not a chance I wanted to take. I had devised a somewhat flimsy story about wanting to visit the Israel, Eygpt and Jordan for three months. Arriving at passport control I surveyed the dozen or so booths and plumped for the only one who looked capable of a smile, lauching myself towards her with my passport and an idiotic grin. She directly proceeded to quiz me about the details of my stay.
"You're travelling alone? For three months? Where are you staying?" She narrows her beady eyes at me and cocks her head to the side, rather like a chicken about to squeeze out an egg.
"And you don't have any Israeli friends? You're going to JERUSALEM? Where will you stay? Which sites are you going to visit?" Err... I blabbed something about seeing the Pilgrim sites and then to Eilat to go diving in the Red Sea, and then asked if she wouldn't mind stamping my visa on a separate piece of paper (Israeli stamps in passport bar access to many countries in the Middle East).
Eyebrows raise. "Yes it's possible". Then the witch stamped it anyway! "Welcome to Israel".
First stop Jerusalem, to a small Palestinian-run hostel in one of the many crooked back streets of the Old City. I spent a couple of days wandering through streets and souqs amidst an alphabetti spaghetti mix of Orthodox Jews, Armenians, Ethiopians, Fransiscans, Greeks, Muslims and Tour Groups in Yellow Baseball Caps.
I felt somehow obliged to do things the traditional way, and after hunting down the Stations of the Cross around Via Dolorosa ( a bit like Where's Wally for Believers), arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, an amazing legoland of architechtural styles, and divvied up between the different squabbling Orthodox groups down to the last windowsill. I queued up, feeling a bit fraudulent, to touch the stone upon which the Good Old Lord was finally laid to rest (it felt jolly nice).
The romanticism of the Old City is somewhat diminished by the groups of gruff Israelis soldiers including young females, with enormous guns, and the airport-like security around the Western Wall and Dome of The Rock. So I was happy to retreat to the leafy shade of the Garden Tomb in East Jerusalem, where a lovely old charity shop-type English lady explained that, according to the Anglican Church, it was here in this delightfully English country garden. that Jesus was really buried.
To be honest I'm not bothered either way, but the Anglicans won it hands down for me- as well as setting the scene very atmospherically, you are able to really climb inside the tomb which has been chiselled inside a rock. And there were benches where one could rest one's weary legs and admire the verdant wonderments of Mother Nature. Lovely.
But I'm missing the point aren't I. I was only in Jerusalem to land and find my feet for a couple of days before travelling to the West Bank to the de-facto capital of Palestine, Ramallah, (Palestinians have always used Jerusalem as their capital until it was annexed by the Israeli Apartheid Wall in 2002) for a conference, and then the start of three months of mainly teaching-based work in another Palestinian town which I shall call 'A'. 'A' used to be a suburb of Jerusalem, but since the erection of the wall has been physically divided in two- the people on this side of the wall no longer have access to Jerusalem or any of it's facilites.
More on that soon. As I have just got here and met the family who have kindly put me up for the first week of my stay, I still have everything to learn about the place, it's history and the direct effects of the Israeli Occupation upon all who live here. But thusfar I can say that looking out of almost any window it is possible to see the Wall, an ugly scar of eight-metre high concrete, snaking its insidious way through the landscape of the West Bank.
I arrived at Tel Aviv at around four in the morning after having spent several hours on the place devising a tourist 'itinerary' - if you tell Israeli passport control that you are here to spend three months working in solidarity with Palestinians in the West Bank it is very possible that you will be plonked on a plane straight back to England- not a chance I wanted to take. I had devised a somewhat flimsy story about wanting to visit the Israel, Eygpt and Jordan for three months. Arriving at passport control I surveyed the dozen or so booths and plumped for the only one who looked capable of a smile, lauching myself towards her with my passport and an idiotic grin. She directly proceeded to quiz me about the details of my stay.
"You're travelling alone? For three months? Where are you staying?" She narrows her beady eyes at me and cocks her head to the side, rather like a chicken about to squeeze out an egg.
"And you don't have any Israeli friends? You're going to JERUSALEM? Where will you stay? Which sites are you going to visit?" Err... I blabbed something about seeing the Pilgrim sites and then to Eilat to go diving in the Red Sea, and then asked if she wouldn't mind stamping my visa on a separate piece of paper (Israeli stamps in passport bar access to many countries in the Middle East).
Eyebrows raise. "Yes it's possible". Then the witch stamped it anyway! "Welcome to Israel".
First stop Jerusalem, to a small Palestinian-run hostel in one of the many crooked back streets of the Old City. I spent a couple of days wandering through streets and souqs amidst an alphabetti spaghetti mix of Orthodox Jews, Armenians, Ethiopians, Fransiscans, Greeks, Muslims and Tour Groups in Yellow Baseball Caps.
I felt somehow obliged to do things the traditional way, and after hunting down the Stations of the Cross around Via Dolorosa ( a bit like Where's Wally for Believers), arrived at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, an amazing legoland of architechtural styles, and divvied up between the different squabbling Orthodox groups down to the last windowsill. I queued up, feeling a bit fraudulent, to touch the stone upon which the Good Old Lord was finally laid to rest (it felt jolly nice).
The romanticism of the Old City is somewhat diminished by the groups of gruff Israelis soldiers including young females, with enormous guns, and the airport-like security around the Western Wall and Dome of The Rock. So I was happy to retreat to the leafy shade of the Garden Tomb in East Jerusalem, where a lovely old charity shop-type English lady explained that, according to the Anglican Church, it was here in this delightfully English country garden. that Jesus was really buried.
To be honest I'm not bothered either way, but the Anglicans won it hands down for me- as well as setting the scene very atmospherically, you are able to really climb inside the tomb which has been chiselled inside a rock. And there were benches where one could rest one's weary legs and admire the verdant wonderments of Mother Nature. Lovely.
But I'm missing the point aren't I. I was only in Jerusalem to land and find my feet for a couple of days before travelling to the West Bank to the de-facto capital of Palestine, Ramallah, (Palestinians have always used Jerusalem as their capital until it was annexed by the Israeli Apartheid Wall in 2002) for a conference, and then the start of three months of mainly teaching-based work in another Palestinian town which I shall call 'A'. 'A' used to be a suburb of Jerusalem, but since the erection of the wall has been physically divided in two- the people on this side of the wall no longer have access to Jerusalem or any of it's facilites.
More on that soon. As I have just got here and met the family who have kindly put me up for the first week of my stay, I still have everything to learn about the place, it's history and the direct effects of the Israeli Occupation upon all who live here. But thusfar I can say that looking out of almost any window it is possible to see the Wall, an ugly scar of eight-metre high concrete, snaking its insidious way through the landscape of the West Bank.
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